Author's Note: Tchaikovsky's music makes me so happy and emotional. That was all I really wanted to say.

Oh, and this is really, really long. :)

Day One-Hundred Eighty: Holy Ground by Taylor Swift

This was my favorite spot in all of New York. You'd think that someone who had a whole huge city to roam would choose someplace a little more…interesting, right? But no; that little hole-in-the-wall coffee place in Chelsea was my favorite place. There were only a few tables outside and I always sat in the same one (which was always empty since, like I said, it was just a little hole-in-the-wall). It had a perfect view of the Hotel Chelsea, which was right down the street.

Maybe the Hotel Chelsea was why I liked it so much. It was once filled with and inhabited by so many enigmatic and interesting people: Sid and Nancy, Leonard Cohen, Janis Joplin, Frida Kahlo…the list could go on and on.

Maybe I liked it so much because of Spencer.

Spencer.

I remembered how she told me she really hated her name because everyone always thought it was a boy's name. If I had to choose a historic persona for her, it would be Elizabeth I from England (though she was by far more stunning to look at than Elizabeth); she had the body of a woman but the mind, drive, and heart of a man. Not to be degrading to women, but Spencer knew what she wanted and she had the drive and rationality to get it. She wasn't like other women.

In fact, thinking back to it, I had met her in that coffee shop. She lived in Chelsea. She probably still lives in Chelsea. She had a very nice apartment: spotless and it reflected on all the little bits of her personality. I remembered when I saw her, she was standing near the window, looking out over at the old Hotel Chelsea. For a moment, everything ran at a normal speed, not the New York minute all New Yorkers were accustomed to.

I went to that coffee shop every day at 3:37 exactly (I wasn't sure why, but it always seemed to be that time whenever I looked at the clock on the wall as I waited for the coffee). She was there every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at the same time. Sometimes, she was reading a book. Other times, she was working on the computer.

The books she read were some of my favorites: The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, Brave New World, Animal Farm…to name a few. My mom always told me that you could tell a lot about a person by their choices in reading before she handed me a stack of Hemingway for my fourteenth birthday. She thought it would be a challenge for me. I guess that it was around that time that my interest in literature really flourished. She loved books, too. She's an English teacher. At least, she was, until she got married. When I was five, she went back to it for about five more years. Then, my dad filed for a divorce with her and she got depressed. She was never extremely depressed, but she didn't feel well enough to continue working with children all day.

Something about that mysterious girl who read Hemingway intrigued me. I found myself writing poems about her. I wrote—and still write—mainly prose, but in that little time frame of my life, I found myself writing more poetry than anything else. She fit into my poems seamlessly. Her name had the perfect number of syllables to fit into my meter.

I don't know what brought me to do so, but I decided one day to go up to her and talk to her. She was reading For Whom the Bell Tolls that day. I felt guilty interrupting her reading (and an actually good writer, too).

I guess she realized I was standing there. I just didn't know what to say or do when she looked up at me.

"Am I bothering you?" she inquired innocently.

"No, I'm sorry. I just noticed you reading Hemingway and he's one of my favorites," I answered. I said it with a slight stutter. Could I get any lamer?

"I can see that." I was a little confused. She pointed to the book I forgot I was holding. "To Have and Have Not? I've read that book at least twelve times since I first read it when I was sixteen," she explained. "Why don't you sit with me, anyway? It would be nice to talk to someone who's alive for a change," she said as she pointed to the empty chair across from her. Maybe this wouldn't be so horrible (and I wouldn't mince words and make it entirely uncomfortable for the two of us). "I'm Spencer," she introduced.

"I'm Toby," I responded as I took the seat across from her.

She nodded slowly, like she was letting it all seep in. She took a sip of her coffee while looking out of the window. "Have you seen the movie for To Have and Have Not?" she asked.

I nodded. My mom was an avid fan of black and white movies. They were always her favorites. It didn't really matter the genre of the movie; she just liked the aesthetics of black and white film. She had me watch Vertigo, Casablanca, Breakfast at Tiffany's…I was pretty sure I watched some movies I didn't even understand at the time, but it didn't really matter to me because they made my mom happy. Her absolute favorites (aside from Psycho, which I remember gave me nightmares the first few times I saw it) were The Big Sleep and To Have and Have Not. She said it was because of Bogart and Bacall's chemistry. I don't really think I fully understood when I first watched those movies. To be fair, I didn't have my first girlfriend until I was already in college.

"I loved Lauren Bacall the most. I always felt bad about my raspy voice until I saw her movies. It made me feel a little better," she told me.

I nodded. "I always found her voice very relaxing."

She smiled with a small sense of intrigue. Even though she seemed a bit interested, she changed the subject. "So what do you do? I've seen you around here a lot."

"I'm a writer," I answered.

"A struggling artist?" she asked with interest.

"If you want to call it that. I've never considered my writing to really be art. I just like to write. I write for the paper, but that's not the style I'm most interested in. I just write boring things about stories nobody really cares about," I explained.

She nodded in response as she took a sip of her coffee.

"What do you do?"

She sighed as she thought it over. "I'm a medical examiner. You wouldn't believe how many idiotic deaths there are in New York City: people who drink themselves to death, people who throw themselves into the harbor, people who are cut into multiple parts by angry ex-lovers…"

My eyes widened. "Really?"

"It's happened maybe once or twice. It certainly makes for an interesting story, doesn't it?" she inquired with a sly smile before taking another sip of her coffee.

That was just how it went with us. We just…clicked. We became friends in less than a New York minute. I don't know how far into the conversation it dawned upon me that we were really quite alike, but I remembered thinking that I felt like I had been friends with her my whole life.

Just as we were talking about The Sun Also Rises and how I never stumbled upon a vast majority of Hemingway's short stories (which was apparently a "sin incomparable to any other" according to Spencer), Spencer's phone began to beep.

"Oh, shoot. I'm so sorry. It seems as though my lunch break is over. I really should be going," she said as she closed the book. "I guess I'll see you here on Thursday? I always come on Thursdays." Before I could even respond, she was out of the door.

That was the first day I met her.

A few weeks later, we had become good friends. We always sat in the same spot. Once, I asked her why she liked that particular spot so much and she said it was because of the Hotel Chelsea. She loved the stories and said she would've died to get a little glimpse of the drama surrounding Nancy Spungen's death; it was one of those things that always intrigued her quite a bit. She asked me why I liked that spot, but my reason was entirely different. It was a historic part of New York City that was just vibrant on the inside and plain outside. It was like a little enigma and it paralleled the city it was situated in.

She lived in Chelsea and I lived in West Village, so we lived fairly close to each other. Sometimes, I felt like even though on the outside, it seemed as though we fit perfectly in our respective communities, it really should've been switched; she was far more creative and free than I was, despite the fact that her profession was more analytical and fact-based while mine was much more liberal.

Anyway, about six to eight weeks after we first became friends, I saw a book sitting on top of some Metro New York papers…that was the cheap, dull newspaper I wrote for (and more copies ended up untouched and in the trash than in people's apartments). It was Hemingway's complete book of short stories. There was a little blue post-it note on the top. In black sharpie, she had written: Maybe you can rectify the most opprobrious sins known to man. And I know you know that word, since you're a big-shot writer. Besides, your article about the new plans to put the "forgotten borough" of Staten Island on the map was riveting and used such colorful language. She hadn't signed it, but he was positive it was her. She even put a little winky face at the bottom.

The days started getting shorter until they seemed to fade into one long night. Winters in New York seemed the shortest. I had lived in or around Manhattan for most of my life and that never seemed to have change.

In the winter, New York didn't slow down; everything seemed just as quickly paced, especially after Christmastime and New Year's Eve (the only week or so where New Yorkers seemed to take it a bit easier). But for some reason, it was always so dark. Even when it was sunny out, the sky was always this pale bluish-grey color. I don't know whether I find it intriguing or just very depressing. Aside from that, the days naturally got shorter, so although the rest of the city was still fully functioning, I felt like I went into hibernation.

Toby did a pretty good job at distracting me from the intriguing yet depressing short days of winter. He always found a way to make me laugh. Plus, in his humble apartment, there was never really a rainy day. Even when there were rainy days, he always managed to pull the silver lining right from the rain cloud, like it was just provoked from his words. He had such beautiful words.

When the holidays creeped up on us, I—for the first time in quite a long time—was a bit nervous about being alone. Being alone now seemed to be a much direr concept than it once had been.

"Where are you going for Christmas? Are you going to visit family?" I asked as I took a sip of the coffee he made as we sat in his apartment.

He shrugged. "I don't really get along much with my family."

"You and me both," I said with a small smile. "But what about your mom?"

"My mom always comes here. I haven't seen my dad in a long time. I don't think he really misses my company on Christmas, though. He got himself a nice new family; he doesn't need me or my mom anymore."

I pressed my lips together in a straight line. He had told me once or twice before that after his parents' divorce, his father had gotten remarried to a woman with an annoying stepdaughter who he adored and loved much more than he ever had Toby.

"I don't mean to intrude on your holiday plans, but would you mind terribly if I hung out with you and your mom on Christmas Eve? I don't want to ruin your actual Christmas, so I'll only stick around for the 24th—"

"No, you can stay for Christmas, Spencer. Sleep over, even, if you'd like. My mom stays at the Chelsea anyway," he answered with a smile. We had gone to see the Chelsea once or twice together. It was always so much fun. I wanted to stay there one of those days, but I always got a bit sidetracked with work.

Two and a half weeks later, when the 24th came around, I was eating breakfast with Toby at his apartment when his mother showed up. She knocked, but a few moments later, before Toby made his way to the door, we both heard keys jingling. Toby's mother came in with her back a few moments later and he greeted her.

I don't really remember exactly what they said to each other. They didn't exchange very many words before she noticed me sitting at the table.

"Who is this?" she asked with curiosity coloring her voice.

"This is one of my friends, Spencer," Toby said.

"Hi, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I'm Spencer." Immediately, I felt stupid. Just put your foot in your mouth, Spence.

"Oh, I changed my name back to my maiden name, which is too long and hard to pronounce. You can just call me Marion," she insisted. "I'm going to put my bag in your room. Is that alright, Toby?"

"Sure," he responded. A moment later, he sat back down next to me. Just as he sat down, I had gotten up. "Where are you going, Spence?"

I picked up my bag and put it over my shoulder. "I think I should give you guys some time to play catch-up. I'll see you later, okay?"

Before he had time to argue, I already had one foot through the door.

My mother walked into the main area of the apartment a few minutes later. "Where's Spencer?" she asked.

"Oh, she had to go…somewhere," I answered ambiguously as I finished the eggs on my plate.

My mom sighed and sat down next to me, where Spencer was sitting ten minutes ago. "Is there something you want to tell me about her? Are you two seeing each other? Toby, you don't have to be scared to tell me things like that."

"I can assure you that Spencer and I aren't going out or…doing any of that stuff." I knew where this was going. My mom and I had a rather personal relationship, but it was a bit one-sided at times. While she practically expected me to tell her whether I had any girlfriends or friends-with-benefits, I liked to think I was smarter than to fall into that trap. Aside from that, who wants to tell their mom that they have a friend with benefits?

Not that Spencer was either. Not that I even had a girlfriend/friend with benefits.

"So do you have a girlfriend I don't know about?"

I furrowed my eyebrows.

"Toby, there was a whole pile of girls' clothing sitting on your dresser. I was born at night, but it wasn't last night. Unless you're a cross-dresser. By the way, if you do so happen to be a cross-dresser, you don't have to be—"

"Mom, I'm not a cross-dresser and those are Spencer's clothes, but we're really just friends. She just likes hanging out here. I don't know why, though. Her apartment is much nicer than mine…" I trailed off.

"If I can add my two-cents, I think that she likes you. And I think you like her back."

I sighed. "Mom—"

"I'm just saying that Spencer seems like a nice girl," she insisted before getting up. "I'll leave you alone now. Anyway, I have to catch up with my Metro New York, anyway," she continued with a smile.

I scoffed. "That's easily one of the worst papers in New York City."

"Are you this negative at work?" she asked. I just nodded.

"This dress is pretty. Is this for Christmas Eve?" Hanna asked as we looked in some clothing stores on Fifth Avenue. She pointed at a pretty red one in particular. It did look very nice in the window.

I nodded. "I don't know how fancy they dress up for Christmas, so I don't want anything too over-the-top," I explained.

"You're going to look amazing. And who cares if you're dressed up? It's just you, Toby, and his mom. And maybe, if you decide you don't want to wear it for Christmas and happen to wear it on New Year's Eve, you might happen to spend it with Toby. And maybe, if you just so happen to spend it with him, the pretty dress we happened to stumble upon today will just so happen to slide off your body and onto his apartment floor," Hanna teased.

I groaned. "Hanna, you're really pushing this whole thing."

"What? Toby is really cute. Guys, am I lying when I say that you can cut the tension between the two of them with a knife when they're in the room together?" Hanna inquired, turning to our friends, Emily and Aria.

"No," they answered in unison.

After a stare-down (which Hanna unfortunately beat me at, since I was unfortunately a sucker for blue eyes), she dragged me into the store. I ended up buying the dress.

The next day on Christmas Eve, I opted not to wear the dress. Maybe I was secretly being hopeful with all of Hanna's 'happenings.' I wore something much more casual for dinner with them. After dinner, the three of us walked around New York City. It was bright and beautiful, especially when we passed the huge Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. It felt like we had the city to ourselves.

"I'm exhausted. I don't know how you New Yorkers can walk around the city all day and then come back and not be tired. I'm going to sleep," Toby's mother announced before walking into Toby's room.

"Are you staying here?" Toby asked softly.

I yawned. Truthfully, I wanted to, but there was no space for me to sleep. "I can go home. It's fine."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

That couch looked very appealing to me. "I don't have anything to sleep in."

He gave me a very unamused look before tossing me a long-sleeved shirt of his. "If you get cold, I'll cover you. I'm like a human heater," he assured me.

I blushed a little at the thought of him covering me. After changing, I stayed on the couch and he insisted on sleeping on the floor. For a while, I laid in the darkness and he was on the floor. It got really cold.

"Toby? Are you awake?" I asked quietly.

"Yes, Spencer?"

I bit my lip, contemplating just saying "Never mind." But instead, I asked, "Do you have another blanket?" I inquired timidly.

I heard him get up and fumble around before I felt a blanket drape over me. It was warm. "Here." Even though it was warm, five minutes later, I felt myself shivering again.

"Spence? Come here," he said after hearing my teeth chatter. Reluctantly, I got up and walked over to him. Immediately, this tight feeling in my whole body that I hadn't even noticed seemed to loosen up. This huge sense of relief and comfort washed over me.

"Thanks. I needed you," I said quietly as I pulled the blanket closer to me. I had forgotten how nice it felt to sleep next to someone else, especially in the cold winter months.

"Anytime, Spence. Goodnight," he said before giving me a small platonic kiss on the back of the head. I don't know how, but somehow, we ended up completely tangled up in each other; my legs intertwined with his, we were both wrapped around each other, and my lips somehow ended up being pressed against his shoulder. I could only wonder what Toby's mother thought when she woke up and saw the two of us like this. I know what I would've thought. It almost made me wonder…had anything happened the night before? We weren't drinking, but sometimes, I forget what I'm doing very late at night or when I'm very tired.

Toby woke up as I was in shock over our current state. He also looked startled. As soon as we both realized the other was awake, we quickly untangled ourselves from the one another.

We both got up and awkwardly paced around the room.

"We didn't do anything, right?" I asked.

"Not that I remember," he answered simply.

"We wouldn't have done anything," I assured him (or maybe myself) as I sat down on the couch and crossed my arms. "I feel like I would've remembered that…"

"Would it be so bad if something had happened?"

I was barely able to look him in the eyes. "No," I replied meekly. I think I saw a smile on his lips out of the corner of my eyes.

Things were slightly awkward between Spencer and me for the next few days, but it wasn't so bad that we couldn't even act normal around my mom. My mom left two days after Christmas. Although I was sad to see her go, I knew it wouldn't be too terribly long until I saw her again; she always visited for her birthday in February. She loved New York—she said it was one of her favorite cities—so she always visited for her birthday (and often came back three weeks later for my birthday).

Spencer and I finally addressed the whole sleep debacle three days prior to New Year's Eve.

"Would it be so awful if you had slept with me?" Spencer asked as she shuffled cards for our game of poker.

"Well…no…I mean…I don't know," I stuttered. She looked up at me. Her brown eyes were very skeptical. I didn't know how to address that question. I didn't want to offend her, nor did I want to offend her strong feminist views. And I certainly didn't want to lose her friendship. I didn't want to lose another thing; I certainly couldn't lose her.

"Okay, well…would you want to sleep with me?"

Again, I had no idea how I was supposed to answer that question. What did she want me to say? I thought I knew what my answer was, but I didn't want to run the risk of ruining anything.

"Would you want to sleep with me?"

Now, it was her turn to blush. "Well…I don't think it would be a particularly awful experience, to be completely honest," she answered softly as she turned over her cards.

I smiled slightly. "Is that a yes?"

She bit her lip. "I believe I have the right to remain silent on the grounds of incriminating myself," she answered with a slight smile. She turned over to the window and swiftly changed the subject. "Oh, God. I forgot how scared of heights I was."

"Just don't look down," I advised her.

She nodded and took a deep, calming breath. I knew what that felt like, feeling like you were about to fall. I imagine that's what makes people so scared of heights. It felt good not looking down. It felt good feeling secure.

I'd never gotten scared like that in Toby's apartment before. I was kind of surprised I hadn't; it was a pretty tall building and he was on the penultimate floor. A few moments later, I felt his arms wrap around my small frame.

"You're not falling; I promise."

Lately, it was little touches like that that made me feel a bit…jumpy. I had jitters like when Aria and I walked into school on Valentine's Day and we were anxious to see if either of us had gotten any roses.

"Hey, you're a dancer, right?" he asked. I didn't answer, but I was curious to see where this was going. He already knew the answer to that question; he had seen all my old dancing memorabilia from when I had been a dancer from ages seven to seventeen. He'd seen all those old dance recital pictures and I even showed him my old pointe shoes. I hadn't worn them in over five years, so they actually looked pretty old, too. I wondered if I even still had the strength to go en pointe after such a long time…

"Do you want to show me how to dance?"

I looked at him skeptically. "I've never danced with a partner," I insisted. But he wasn't backing down. "You're not going to leave me alone until I say yes, are you?" He shook his head. I sighed before getting up. We went into his kitchen, where there was more space than in the little dining area where we were sitting originally.

When we stood together in the center of the kitchen, he put his hand on the small of my back while I put one on his shoulder. We joined hands. This was very odd.

"There's no music," I argued.

"Gee, I thought you were more creative than that, Hastings," he chastised playfully. "Who says we need music to dance? You can make up the music in your head."

Reluctantly, I gave in. Before I knew it, we were dancing around his kitchen. I was smiling and laughing. This was the first time I had felt this good in a while. He was the only person I wanted to dance with.

I'm not sure which one of us got carried away first, but we ended up tripping over something as we moved from the kitchen to the dining room and ended up toppling onto the couch. I landed on top of him. Without really thinking about it, I pressed my lips against his.

"Wow."

I blushed slightly.

I don't know what happened, but a few months later, Spencer and I fell apart. I guess it happened in a typical way, though, to be honest, I never really felt like any relationship had ever really fallen apart, but this had. It just felt so far out of our control. I still hear about her sometimes in the newspaper (the good one, like the New York Times, where she actually belonged to be written about), but I hadn't spoken to her in a while.

She was just another pretty face now. I probably meant nothing to her anymore. She was no longer in my life, but in a weird way, she still was. I still saw her face in every crowd. I still wonder if she thinks about me like I thought about her. I hoped she did. I hoped she held onto good memories of the two of us and not when we fell apart. I knew what I held onto: the way she'd smile when I kissed her or how she would pout whenever I beat her at a board game (and she'd gloat when she won) or even how she'd yell at me for taking back all of my shirts that somehow ended up in her apartment; not how we'd argue over dumb things and not make time for each other. I didn't want to remember us like that. I wanted to remember all the special things together.

I wanted to remember the little hole-in-the-wall in Chelsea. I could never bring another girl there or even think of anyone else there; that was our holy ground.

MilaMizz: Yeah, I think I know what unwelcome friend you're talking about. Stupid hormones. I'm really glad you liked it.

Sarah:I probably hate a solid 70% or so of my work, so I'd argue, but I feel really sick and I'm not really in the mood to start a debate. But thanks. I get you on the whole school thing; it's already kicking my ass and I've literally had 7 days of school. I hate everything.

So as I told Sarah, I am feeling kind of sick. Maybe leave a review that I can read as I try to do stupid homework and drink my orange juice? Please?

And also, this was really long. Like, really long. It was actually about 14 pages which is over twice as long as most of my chapters for my multi-chap stories are. I hope you enjoyed all nearly-5.000 words of this one-shot. You probably didn't and I don't blame you, but still :)

The next one-shot will be Beautiful Sadness by 5 Alarm Music. I don't know. It's a cute song. I just don't know about it yet. -Kayson